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David McCann

Late Spring

I am lying on the short grass.No plastic cushion tucks betweenMy head, the back of it, and ground.My arms are stretched out, with the rightPalm up, the left palm down, as ifI wanted to receive, bestow.Through my stillness I begin toFeel the turning of the planet.

For a minute the sun withdrawsIts warmth, and I an only thenConscious of a current of air,Hardly enough to call a breeze,Breathing into the afternoon.Soon a beam from the sun againTouches my face, and rapidlyThe heat ripples over my skin.

I am flying on the sharp grass.No threadbare rug spreads under meBecause of damp, because of green.My legs are straight out, with a senseOf freedom that it takes no moreThan naked feet to bring about.Silence gathers in my bodyLike the whirling of a dervish.

An open, wingless country andAn idle, songless day predictThe slow descent towards those depthsOf summer when a search for windAnd water permeates the hours.The inundated light appearsStagnant as well as fathomless,Above the undulating moor.

Spring is dying in the young grass.No other season cadencesSo keenly - like a lover’s groans.And even if the time aheadIs good and gold and clear and blueIt will not mitigate the loss.Sitting in the shade detachesYou from quiet revolution.